


Add Wings, Add Harp, Add Heart (all set)

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 14:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19111897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee/pseuds/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: “WE AREN’T MARRIED.”“Well we aren’t not married,” Aziraphale argues.Crowley makes an annoyed sound and stalks away.He comes back a minute later, “Well I certainly don’t honor you or whatever they say in those promise things.”“Vows. And you honor me with your presence, my dear.”Crowley realizes he and Aziraphale act like a married couple. A minor crisis is had. Fluff ensues.





	Add Wings, Add Harp, Add Heart (all set)

**Author's Note:**

> I love the book Good Omens and I love the TV adaptation and I love this pairing/these characters. So happy to see them come to life in such a major way!
> 
> This is majorly based on TV canon, since the show included some scenes we don't get in the book (I love all those sweet flashback scenes). 
> 
> I have a little cold and I'm on cold medicine at the moment so nothing is proof read and I'm a little loopy, so I'm sorry if there's any horrifying grammatical errors in here. This fic is a little silly, a lot fluffy, and was mostly born out of me imagining Crowley ranting about bridesmaids' dresses and Adam wanting wings, so hopefully it turned out passably cute.

**Add Wings, Add Heart, Add Harp (all set)**

**I take thee…**

            Crowley blames that Anathema woman. And what’s-his-face the junior witchfinder with the glasses. And Aziraphale. But that last one is more habit than anything else. Over the centuries Crowley has grown used to blaming Aziraphale for every minor inconvenience from sudden rain to his coffee being too hot to drink when he wants to drink it.

            The point is, Crowley is sure it is at least one of those three beings’ fault that he’s in this predicament. He’s pretty sure it’s the first two.

            It all starts because of a bloody wedding. The Pulsifer-Device wedding, to be precise. And a bloody-minded angel that bullies (as far as angels are capable of bullying) Crowley into attending.

            “I’m almost certain bridesmaid dresses are one of ours,” Crowley says in an undertone while the person at the front drones on about vows or something. Crowley is programmed to stop listening when promises come into play. He’s just not wired to comprehend them. Slide off him like water off a duck’s back, they do. Hence the sauntering vaguely downwards he did somewhere before The Beginning. 

            Aziraphale shushes him.

            Crowley keeps talking. He doesn’t really listen to commands well either. “Think about it, angel; an expensive dress someone else picked out that _you_ still have to pay for, that’s guaranteed to fit all wrong and wash you out and make you look short and fat and undesirable next to the bride all for her _special day_ , and then you’ll never bloody wear it again but you hang onto it for ten years on the off chance it will stop making you look short and fat and washed out compared to whatever person you’re standing next to every time you put it on.” He hisses a little on the ‘s’ sounds in ‘undesirable’, he can’t help it. “Tell me that isn’t one of the most diabolically _brilliant_ fiendish inventions you’ve seen this side of the Pit.”

            Aziraphale slaps him lightly with a rolled up program this time.

            Crowley keeps talking in an undertone, for Aziraphale’s ears only, although he doesn’t really care if they disturb the other wedding-goers. Crowley doesn’t really care about ruffling this lot’s feathers.

            There’s only one set of feathers he wants to ruffle, and they’re sitting right next to him, wearing a spiffy cream and dove grey suit and trying very hard to pretend to ignore him.

            “Can’t be sure which side came up with _marriage_ , though. Brilliantly effective torture device if unleashed in the proper capacity, but so stuffy and formal it _must_ be one of your lot’s…”

            Aziraphale actually stomps on his foot this time, which is more surprising than actually painful. “I happen to like weddings,” the angel mutters under his breath, “Two people promising to stick together through no matter what, it’s _nice._ ”

            Crowley doesn’t really have the heart to keep picking at it after that. He just slumps down in his seat, trying his best to look like a disaffected movie star who can’t be bothered to behave and not entirely failing.  

            He catches Aziraphale peeking at him from the corner of his eye and giving him a tiny, sweet smile. It makes something in Crowley’s chest squirm. He doesn’t like that one bit.

            He slouches lower in his chair and frowns at the flowerbeds. Someone should give the azaleas a stern talking to. They’re looking droopy.

…

            It’s after the wedding, when Crowley is skulking around the edges of the reception and Aziraphale is *shudder* _talking to people_ when it occurs to him.

            _“Two people promising to stick together no matter what.”_

Oh bloody hell. That’s what he and the angel do. Have been doing for 6,000 years.

            Is he _married_? To an _angel?_

            This will not do.

…

**To have and to hold…**

            Crowley decides the only solution to his current dilemma is to get blind drunk and ponder it tomorrow, if and when he decides to sober up. This has the distinct advantage of being very fun while it lasts and making everything around him extra hilarious as he observes it through the veil of at least one bottle of champagne, and some of Mr. Young’s home-brewed ale.

            The father of the antichrist does not disappoint on the alcohol front. Crowley makes a mental note.

            Of course, by the time most of the humans clear out he’s well on his way to completely plastered and by the time Aziraphale is shepherding (ha! Shepherds…flocks…there’s a joke about a psalm in there somewhere) him back to where they parked Bentley II, Crowley gives a resounding mental ‘fuck it’ and drops his humanoid form, slithering into snake shape just to make Aziraphale squeak and flail around trying to hold up all his coils.

            “Crowley,” Aziraphale huffs, Crowley is not a small or light snake, “Is this necessary?”

            Crowley hisses at him, pretends that he can’t talk in snake form despite that being demonstrably untrue (see the book of Genesis for more details) and coils up around Aziraphale’s warm, soft upper body and snugs his head down in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, forcibly loosening that stupid bowtie as he does.

            Aziraphale huffs, “Crowley, really?”

            Crowley just tightens his grip.

            Aziraphale tries to shove him off but it’s halfhearted at best. Crowley knows his angel (not his bloody angel, bless it!), and knows that the being that sheltered him with his own wing during the first ever downpour won’t just drop him, even when he’s being a clingy drunken serpent.

            “Oh, well, if you’re going to just…” Aziraphale is one of the only people Crowley has ever met who genuinely sighs on a regular basis. Although that could be the company the angel keeps pulling the sounds out of him more than anything else.

            “You’re going to have to uncoil when we get to the car,” Aziraphale tells him as he makes his way to Bentley II, “I don’t know how to drive these new-fangled automobiles.”

…

**From this day forward…**

            Crowley wakes up the next day completely sober. He decides this is terrible and the best way to deal with problems is to sleep them off. He’s just spent eleven years and a very stressful few days dealing with apocalypse-level problems head-on.

            It’s exhausting.

            He’s earned a little deserved indolence. He can deal with the matter of whether or not he’s common-law married to an angel when he wakes up. If he’s lucky he’ll sleep for another century and it won’t be as much of a problem when he does decide to face the world again.

…

            For the record, Crowley does not manage to sleep for a century. He sleeps for twelve hours before he’s woken up by his phone ringing and Aziraphale asking if he could please come over and help him shift through the smoldering rubble that used to be his beloved bookshop.

            Well Crowley can’t say no to that. He’s a demon, not an asshole.

…

**For better or for worse…**

            Crowley is surprised at how awful it feels stepping through the doorway and beholding the smoking ruin that used to be a dusty monument to aging literature. Not, surprisingly, because of the smoldering ruin aspects – although he doesn’t like, as a rule, to get soot on his suits. (Hence why he doesn’t wander through Hell much these days – it’s hard to be a snappy dresser when there’s ash and decay all over the place).

            It’s because the last time he was here the world was ending and more importantly, he thought Aziraphale was dead and that meant that _his_ world was ending. His last memory of this place is a blazing inferno all around him as he screamed his throat raw, full of more helpless rage and despair than he felt even after he fell from Heaven.

            But this time Aziraphale’s there. Same old stuffy angel in the same old coat he’s been clinging to for over a century. Same old frumpy sweater vest and crooked bowtie. His pale curls are dusted with soot and ash but somehow that only seems to emphasize the way his pale shape almost glows against the grey devastation all around them.

            There goes that strange twisting, wriggling feeling in Crowley’s chest again.

            He hates that feeling, he does.

            “You wanted to see me, angel?” he drawls as he steps through the doorway, timbers crumbling to ash a tiny bit more in his wake. Yes, best to create some emotional distance now. He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets and makes sure to swagger a little bit more than usual as he stroll up to where Aziraphale stands, taking in the damage.

            Aziraphale smiles like he’s happy to see Crowley and that’s weird, isn’t it? Aziraphale has seemed…different after the Apocalypse that Wasn’t. More settled. Like some great big question of his had been finally answered.

            And he keeps looking at Crowley with soft eyes like he’s waiting for the demon to catch on and it’s infuriating.

            Crowley hates feeling like the slow kid in class. Even though he’s never really been a child and the only class he’s ever had is the kind you can purchase in suit form.

            “I wanted to show you something, my dear.”

            And that’s new too. It always used to be ‘my dear boy’ like something out of one of those books about the butler named Jeeves and his idiot charge. Now it’s just ‘my dear’ and Crowley is very uncomfortable with _that_ development, especially since it seems to be in cahoots with his newfound heart condition.

            “Mmm, all right then, go on,” Crowley gestures dramatically like he couldn’t care less about whatever it is the angel hauled him out here for. He glances around while Aziraphale does whatever needs doing for the Big Reveal. “You know, I expected you to be more broken up about all this. Your life’s work going up in flames and all that.”

            “I was, that’s true.” Apparently even new and improved ‘my-dear-ing’ Aziraphale can’t bring himself to say ‘you’re right’ to Crowley, “But then,” the angel shoves a mostly destroyed table aside, revealing a trap door of all things hidden beneath the remnants of a carpet, “I remembered this.” He pulls open the trap door and crouches down to extract something from inside.

            Crowley, despite himself, hovers closer, curious despite himself.

            Aziraphale, huffing a bit with effort (really, angels and their refusal to snap their fingers and have the work done for them…oh, never mind, Crowley is pretty sure Gabriel would snap his fingers and expect the world handed to him on a silver platter, this fondness for doing things the human way is all Aziraphale), pulls loose…a fireproof ammunition box. Circa World War II, if Crowley has his antiques right.

            “What are you doing with that?” Crowley asks, affecting nonchalance, but his curiosity well and truly peaked.

            Aziraphale smile self-deprecatingly up at him, “Oh, it’s nothing terribly portentous or anything.” He looks down at the box, “You’ll probably find it silly and sentimental, but, ah well.”

            He opens the box to reveal the books Crowley had saved from the bombed church during the Blitz. The books of prophecy the Nazis wanted to exploit and the more daring books they wanted to burn.

            Aziraphale runs a delicate finger across the spines. “I figured if they escaped a firey end once, they were probably worth protecting in case of another,” he chuckles, “And I thought anything those Nazi chaps wanted to destroy deserves to live a good long life, don’t you think?”

            Crowley is dumbstruck. This is a very rare condition for him and one he does not particularly relish. The novelty is amusing enough, he supposes, but it’s not a terribly pleasant experience, being struck mute by a sudden onslaught of emotion.

            He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and hunches his shoulders up to his ears and rocks back on his heels. “Ah, well then.” He doesn’t know what to say next, but that doesn’t seem to both the angel much, who has started to page through one of his books.

            “I remember that one,” Crowley blurts, “That’s the depressing one from the twenties about how terrible war is.”

            Aziraphale raises his head and looks at him, “I rather think all the war books from the twenties are like that, my dear.”

            Crowley waves the notion off, “Ah well, some people can’t appreciate a good scrap.”

            “You hate war.”

            “Well that’s because I’m a lazy bastard who can’t appreciate it. Now budge over, I want to see what I miracled up for you.”

…

**For richer or for poorer…**

            Crowley is not hiding because Crowley is not a coward. (Except he is, he’s a snake, he’s built for slinking off and waiting to strike until danger is literally screaming in his face). Crowley is taking time to visit his almost-godson the antichrist.

            Adam is happy enough to see him, complaining that since Anathema and what’s-his-witchfinder got married they’re more focused on each other than answering questions from a band of inquisitive pre-teens. With the young adults out of commission they’ve had to turn to their parents for answers and parents are just not equipped to handle the kind of questions particularly imaginative children are wont to ask.

            Crowley points out that he’s older than the oldest adults they know by thousands of years, but Adam brushes this aside.

            “You’re different,” the antichrist shrugs.

            Crowley decides to take that at face value and move on.

            “So,” Adam asks. He’s walking along the top of the low brick walls fencing in the neighbors’ lawns, swinging his arms loosely. He’s handled the world almost ending remarkably well, all things considered, “When are my wings coming in?”

            Crowley raises an eyebrow, “What?”

            “When do I get my wings?” Adam asks, “I’m the antichrist, and you’re a demon. You have wings. I figure mine have got to turn up eventually. So, when?”

            Crowley blinks at him, glad for his sunglasses. It’s much easier to look effortlessly cool when you have something hiding your eyes from your conversation partners.

            “Why would I know?” Crowley sputters, “You’re the only antichrist I’ve ever bloody met. I mean, there was a bit with a lad we thought was you but wasn’t – his name was Warlock and he lives in America. But he was just a human child.” Crowley waves that thought away, “Point is, you’re the only you around. We’ve never had an antichrist before. I dunno what’ll happen with you. You could wish yourself to have wings, I suppose, or wait to see if they,” a vague gesture, “grow in.”

            “Huh,” Adam says, “I like that.”

            “That you don’t know anything?”

            “Yeah,” Adam grins, “I like how the future could be anything. It’s nice.”

            Crowley tilts his head, absorbing that thought. That the future could be anything. That a not-so-human boy could grow wings. That an angel could rebuild his bookstore from nothing. That a demon could stay where he is, tentatively in an angel’s orbit, drinking champagne, and dining at the Ritz.

            It’s a nice thought.

            “Bloody wish you’d kept the rainforests all regrown, though,” Crowley mutters, “the future minus some global warming is some certainty I’d like.”

…

**In sickness and in health…**

            Crowley has tried drinking, tried sleeping, tried running away. None of it has worked. And now the angel is living in Crowley’s apartment as he rebuilds his bookstore so he can’t even hide there.

            So instead he’s keeping himself busy.

            Crowley’s typical version of busy is tormenting telemarketers, inspiring small, everyday menaces such as the Starbucks-spelled-my-name-wrong thing, and micro-managing his plants. Also bothering Aziraphale.

            But with the impasse in the aftermath of the Apoca-Not Crowley doesn’t feel like even getting up to his usual garden-variety evil. So he’s confined to bullying his plants, who are looking a little worse for wear.

            He’s pacing his greenhouse, lecturing his plants, who are looking a little sickly, when bloody Aziraphale interrupts.

            “You’re trying, aren’t you? Yes, you’re very fierce,” Aziraphale is telling a small, spiny cactus, “quit intimidating. But you’re looking a little pale. That’s all right, you’ll perk up with time. Would you like some water?”

            Crowley is scowling at the angel and tapping his foot now. “ _Angel_ ,” he growls.

            “Yes?” Aziraphale asks, then, turning back to the cactus, “hmm, better not, it looks like you’ve already been watered recently, wouldn’t want to flood you, poor thing.”

            The stupid cactus is already looking perkier already. Traitor.

            “Must you mollycoddle the plants?” Crowley hisses.

            “It’s hardly coddling,” Aziraphale chastises him, actually petting the leaves of an aloe plant, “Positive reinforcement never hurt anyone.”

            “It hurtssss the dissssscipline I ssssstricly reinforcccce.”

            Aziraphale gives him another one of those soft looks and Crowley huffs. “Do you think, that if any of our respective superiors had tried talking things through civilly, we would have come so close to total annihilation?”

            “It’s all part of the ‘ineffable bloody plan’, isn’t it?” Crowley huffs; aggressively spritzing a spider plant that quails under his ministrations.

            Aziraphale hums, “I think she wanted us to figure out how to sort ourselves out without falling back on the old ‘smite and flight’ play,” he casts another smile Crowley’s way, “But I could be biased, old boy.”

            Crowley just growls and spritzes Aziraphale with his water bottle.

            Aziraphale, of course, huffs and hums and makes a fuss over his damp clothing and it’s almost enough to chase away the shadows of contemplation.

…

**To love and to cherish…**

            Crowley finally snaps when it’s raining outside and Aziraphale won’t miracle away the bad weather so they’re trapped indoors together and Crowley can’t even get a decent nap started from the racket of the angel in the next room sitting on _Crowley’s_ throne-chair-melodramatic-thing enthusiastically chicken-pecking his way one key at a time through eBay’s selection of antique books on Crowley’s least favorite laptop.

            Crowley throws himself off of the couch he was trying to nap on to stalk into the angel’s room and announce, apropos of nothing, “WE AREN’T MARRIED.”

            Aziraphale peers up at him a little myopically. Who knows how long he’s been staring at the screen, the lunatic. His eyes are all blood-shot because while virtue never sleeps and all that rot his corporeal body would like him to take a break once and a while.

            “Well we aren’t _not_ married,” Aziraphale argues.

            Crowley makes an annoyed sound and stalks away.

            He comes back a minute later, “Well I certainly don’t honor you or whatever they say in those promise things.”

            “Vows. And you honor me with your presence, my dear.”

            Crowley growls and ducks out of the doorway. He yells at a disappointing potted fern for a bit before coming back, “what about ‘for better or for worse’, hmm?”

            “I’m better, you’re worse,” Aziraphale says bluntly, “that’s what we’ve been since the beginning of time.”

            “Oh rubbish,” Crowley dismisses, vanishing again, before popping his head in for one last comment, “And you gave your sword away on day one. So who’s ‘better’ now?”

            “That was a generous act,” Aziraphale says primly.

            “Bah,” Crowley scoffs and flits away.

            He makes espresso, decides he doesn’t want espresso, changes his mind and calls the espresso back into existence only to decide he didn’t want it in the first place. He stomps back to Aziraphale, who has apparently figured out how to turn the tv on.

            “I’m richer. You’re poorer, then.”

            Aziraphale glances up at him, the soft look is back, “Blessed are the poor.”

            “Ugh!” Crowley throws up his hands and goes to pick some mint to make himself a mojito. He needs a drink to deal with this right now.

            “We can’t get sick. So the sickness thing, that doesn’t work,” he says later, definitely tipsy, after the mojito he just started drinking straight rum. Rum is a little too sweet for his taste but it’s what he’s got for now.

            Aziraphale looks up, and waves him in, “Come watch telly with me. It’s a rerun of that Dr Who show and I think this chap looks just like you.”

            “I keep telling you, angel, we aren’t married, and no I do not bloody look like that guy. Look at him. With his brown floppy hair and what is that _suit_?”

            “You’re slurring, dear.”

            “Yeeeah. Rum will do that to you.”

            “I think that counts as sickness. And even if it doesn’t, you’ve walked over consecrated ground for me. That’s the ultimate ‘in sickness and in health’.”

            Crowley scoffs, “That wasn’t a…a… _gesture_ or anything. I was already in love with you for like… _years_ then. Lotsa years. Lotsa Lotsa years.”

            Aziraphale’s face folds into a beaming smile. “Really?”

            “Pffft,” Crowley scoffs, “Yeah. Just. Just don’t go spreading it around. Lose all my street cred. Demons don’t do love and mush-mushy stuff.”

            Aziraphale reaches out and hooks an arm around Crowley’s waist. Crowley had not realized he’d drifted further and further into the room until he was practically hanging over the angel, but somehow Aziraphale easily hooked him in and dumped him into the throne-chair next to him so Crowley must have been within hooking distance.

            Crowley glares at Aziraphale. “I hate you. You make my chest do weird squiggly things.”

            Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s forehead and that shouldn’t feel like a ray of sunshine on the best and most perfect summer afternoon, but it does. And somehow Aziraphale still smells like old books even though most of his old books are old news and Crowley didn’t realize how much that smell meant until he was standing in the wreckage of the one place on the planet that he always thought would be there.

            “I don’t want to feel all squishy and squiggly inside.”

            “Then sober up,” Aziraphale advises.

            Crowley hisses in displeasure. He’s enjoying being loose and empty-headed too much right now. “Where’s your horrible freakout, angel?” Jusssst daysss ago you said you didn’t even like me.”

            Crowley is slouched in the chair enough that Aziraphale can rest his cheek on the top of the demon’s head. Crowley would resent that, but Aziraphale is warm and snakes like warmth. That’s his justification, anyway. But apparently the cat’s out of the bag on the ‘loving thine enemy’ thing so all this lying to himself feels a little half-hearted.

            “I thought a lot when the world almost ended,” Aziraphale’s voice is a little shy and small and as stutter-prone and huffy and patently ridiculous his speech patterns are, there’s something about the way he’s speaking right now that makes Crowley tuck his legs up on the seat of his throne-chair and tuck himself better into Aziraphale’s side.  “I had my panic when I first went back to the bookshop and all that was left were the books you saved during the Blitz. I call Anathema in a panic demanding to know if there were any Agnes Nutter prophecies about the two of us,” his voice takes a petulant turn, “She laughed at me.”

            “Bitch,” Crowley hisses.

            Aziraphale pokes him, “Be nice, she’s our friend.”

            “Your friend.”

            “We went to her _wedding_.”

            “I went under protest.”

            “You went because she invited you.”

            “I was invited under duress.”

            “Don’t sulk, you’re tiresome when you sulk drunkenly.”

            Crowley ignores that and focuses on the thrum of the angel’s voice. 

            “She told me that if I hadn’t figured it out after six thousand years and one apocalypse then a book of prophecy wasn’t going to be much help,” Aziraphale sighs, “She was right.”

            “Sssso what did you decide?” Crowley hisses; tongue heavy with rum.

            “That I love you,” Aziraphale says simply, “that I’ve always loved you and I just never noticed because it seemed so natural to me. Like breathing is for being that have to do that sort of thing. And then I realized how much effort I was putting into making sure you didn’t know I loved you. And when I stopped doing all that, everything was much easier.” 

            “So you just decided we’ve been married 6,000 years?”

            “No, but we’ve been a lot of things in the last eternity and even when we were sworn enemies we were partners. So. I’d like to keep things like that, if you’re amenable,” Aziraphale says, voice going back to the usual stiffness.

            “Mm,” Crowley hums, deciding that sleep is actually much easier to find when he’s embracing the angel rather than trying to drown him out. “Partnersss. I like that.”

            “I love you, Crowley.”

            “I suppose I love you, angel. Aziraphale. Wouldn’t want that sound bite getting out, it would sound like I was _fraternizing_ with _Gabriel_.”

            Crowley falls asleep to the sweet sound of an angel laughing with pure delight and a soft kiss pressed against his forehead, the tip of his nose, and lightly one his lips. It’s unbearably cliché and cheesy.

            He loves this stupid featherhead.  

**…I pledge thee my faith all the days of our lives.**

           

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song 'Velodrome' by Dessa.


End file.
